


Thinking in Circles

by blehgah



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-19
Updated: 2015-06-18
Packaged: 2018-04-05 02:19:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4161924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blehgah/pseuds/blehgah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Maker has an awful sense of humour: the Herald of Andraste is a male elf who develops a crush on Cullen the day he meets him. Unfortunately, Cullen can only offer him friendship. Certainly someone else could be more deserving of the Herald's affections than Cullen.</p><p>Cullen-central. Inspired by the idea that Cullen's tolerance of mages could have been developed much more than it was in-game. Eventual Cullen/Dorian and Lavellan/Iron Bull.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The Maker has a very strange sense of humour.

It's easy for Cullen to get lost in his work. Going through training drills is familiar to him; he would say it felt like home if he had a sense of what _home_ is. Whatever's left of his home is back in Honnleath. He came close to having a second family once upon a time, back when things were simpler. Back when he was naive, when he was protected by structure and order. A particular Order, in fact.

But he's left that life behind. Or, at least he's trying to.

Of course Andraste had to send a _mage_ as Her Herald. At least he's Dalish and therefore unfamiliar with the ways of their Circles and the Order. Lavellan's obliviousness to the human method of dealing with these _special individuals_ would be endearing if not for the fact that it was absolutely infuriating.

There's a crunch of snow to his left and Cullen finds himself face to face with said Herald. He has a way of sneaking up on Cullen with his light, barefoot steps. The elf's eyes are dark despite his bright gaze, a slight curve to his lips as he stares openly at Cullen.

"My Lord Herald," Cullen greets, turning his attention to Lavellan. He rubs the fingers of one hand to fight off the cold, despite its constant assault.

"You're taking good care of our new recruits, I hope?" Lavellan asks.

"As well as I can manage, considering our resources." Cullen sweeps his eyes over to the sparring recruits for a moment. "The site isn't bad, but with our growing numbers, it could be better."

"I'm just glad so many are willing to join our cause."

"I agree." Cullen chances another look at the men. He knows he looks nervous, but who wouldn't be? This _is_ the Herald of Andraste... Whether Lavellan actually believes it or not. With a quick, quiet inhale, Cullen returns his eyes to Lavellan's. "Cassandra approached me with the Inquisition back when I was in Kirkwall. The situation there hadn't been much better than at the Conclave, although that was before there were even rifts to deal with."

Lavellan nods. "Yes, I heard the Champion left quite a mess behind."

"You heard about what happened?" Cullen's eyebrows fly up.

"Vaguely," Lavellan replies, words slow, "I heard there was a massacre, and I think the head of your church was also killed? Very similar to what happened at the Conclave. It was better explained there, but... My memory of the events at the Temple of Sacred Ashes aren't the best."

"Grand Cleric Elthina," Cullen murmurs. It's almost too quiet to hear amongst the rhythmic clash of steel and wood in the background. Cullen can tell Lavellan heard him, however; it must be those ears of his. "Now that you mention it, both circumstances have their similarities. Two prominent political figures killed thanks to the reckless power of magic--"

Lavellan's brow furrows as he draws away from Cullen. The distance between them isn't grand, but Cullen felt the tension in Lavellan's breath as he moved.

Cullen never forgets that Lavellan is a mage, but that might just be his problem.

"...Civilians left scrambling for order, chaos taking innocent lives..." Cullen continues. He makes sure to lower his voice this time, although his next words have trouble leaving his mouth. "But now we also have... demons running loose, in addition to all that."

Despite Cullen's meek tone, Lavellan doesn't say anything.

Straightening his back, Cullen plows on, "But now we've the Inquisition. We can take action when the Chantry cannot." He says that with the same ferocity as before; it seems he can't control his tone either way. At least Lavellan doesn't shy away at that. "While the mages, the templars, and all else run rampant, _we_ have the power to change all that! We..." He trails off again. "Forgive me. I doubt you came here for a lecture."

When Lavellan smiles at him, Cullen doesn't feel relief like he'd been hoping. His chest tightens and the flush in his face gets a few degrees hotter. Normally, he'd welcome something like that since he's already sick of Haven's cold, but these circumstances aren't exactly ideal.

"No, but if you had one prepared, I'd love to hear it." Those words paired with that _smile_ catch Cullen completely off-guard.

Cullen manages a laugh. "Another time, perhaps."

When Lavellan _continues_ to smile, it clears away Cullen's ability to string words together. Thankfully, a recruit jogs past him, handing off more paperwork on his way out, all without forgetting a quick salute and bow to his superiors.

"I'll leave you to it, then," Lavellan says. The warmth in his voice bounces around Cullen's stomach as he watches the Herald skip away.

It takes him a moment or two before he's able to focus on the words on the paper.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mage rights activist Lavellan warning.

It's been a challenge to convince himself he's not a templar anymore. He's no longer with the Order, and the major thing that once tied him to the Order is out of the picture. Even so, every time the issue of sealing the Breach has been brought up, his first solution is to gather the templars and use them as a means of suppressing the magic that threatens to destroy all of Thedas.

Having Leliana oppose him is one thing, but seeing the Inquisition's _beloved Herald_ refuse him so vehemently is another. Cullen doesn't know who's putting ideas into Lavellan's head and words into his mouth, but the elf is very intent on avoiding people who have abilities to suppress magic.

Figures. Mages have no idea the threat they pose. They only know of their own selfishness. 

Once the thought occurs to him, Cullen has to stop and reconsider. That attitude, that black and white approach-- that's what brought this mess on in the first place.

Thinking like a templar isn't exactly cutting ties to that lifestyle, is it? 

Cassandra looks up at him from across the war table. To the side, Leliana is discussing the current situation of the mages in Redcliffe with Josephine and Lavellan. 

Cullen must be wearing that sour look he dons when the lyrium withdrawal really gets to him. Otherwise, there would be no reason to garner such a look of concern from the Seeker. 

With some effort, he smooths out his expression. There's not enough energy in him to force a convincing smile, but he does manage a nod. Cassandra's eyes linger on his face for a few moments before she turns her attention onto the discussion.

Sighing, Cullen also turns his body towards the others in the room. He's doing this for the sake of others, as he's always endeavoured to do. Mages are people, just like any other resident of Thedas.

It's so difficult to think of them as such when they carry the potential to lure demons from the Veil with every moment they breathe. _Monsters_ , his mind breathes, monsters without any good intentions, only greed and lust for power. 

Moments like these, he tries to remember the good mages he knew. Amell was one, before she... Surana, too. He's the Hero of Ferelden, Maker's breath. All mages can't be bad if one saved all of Thedas from the Blight all those years ago.

Maybe they'll save Thedas from the Breach. 

It'd only be compensation for the peril magic _always_ brings.

* * *

The anxiety that comes with waiting is something that Cullen is familiar with. Being a templar revolves around waiting for the worst to happen, and Cullen's afraid his expectations get lower and lower as time passes. 

Losing Lavellan to some magister's wiles is very high on the list of things that Cullen _doesn't_ want to happen. Whether or not anyone wants to admit it out loud, no one can deny that Lavellan is their greatest asset. Without the Herald of Andraste, the Inquisition becomes even less relevant to the Maker's followers, and maybe a greater enemy to the Chantry. Without the mark, they'd have no chance at closing the rifts, and _everyone_ loses in that case.

Losing Lavellan, the man and not the symbol or the tool.... Wouldn't exactly be ideal either. He's shown Cullen kindness and even camaraderie where most would give him stiff respect instead, a wide berth and maybe even a hint of fear. It's refreshing, to say the least. 

In any case, losing him would be worse than anyone could begin to imagine. And Cullen just let him walk off into that fortress without a proper company.

Rylen nudges Cullen with his elbow as they watch Haven's horizon. 

"Whatever you're thinking, you ought to stop before the contents of your stomach end up on that pretty fur of yours," he says with a crooked grin, "I don't think that'd be easy to wash out." 

Cullen scowls. "I've a stronger stomach than you give me credit for, Lieutenant."

 "Then quit grimacing. You gotta set a better example for the men, else they'll start to think they're gonna die any second now."

 With a sigh, Cullen turns towards the Chantry. "You say that as if the possibility doesn't exist."

 Rylen moves to follow him, but Cullen raises a hand in his direction. "Yes, I understand what you're saying. I'll see if I can... find something more productive to focus my energy on."

 Cullen can't see him as he opens the doors to the Chantry, but he can easily imagine Rylen folding his arms across his chest. "If you work yourself to death, I'll kill you." 

* * *

 

 Cullen had wanted Lavellan to return sooner than later, preferably in one piece, but not with such interesting company at his heel. The anxiety that had been chewing at his guts since Lavellan left gurgles and transforms into something new, something _different_ : full-blown unease as toxic memories begin to crowd around his conscious mind.

 Josephine and Leliana stand with him at the Chantry's door as they watch Lavellan ascend the slight incline towards them. The advisors exchange looks.

 The Herald wears a dark expression as he marches towards them. He comes to a stop at the bottom of the short staircase.

 "The mages have agreed to a full alliance with the Inquisition," he says curtly, "Speak to Grand Enchanter Fiona if you have any more questions." His eyes drop to the snow for a breath or two. "I'll give a full report sometime later tonight. If none of you are awake by that time, I'll leave it in the war room. I... That was a stranger ordeal than I was expecting and I'd rather get some rest before you start asking _me_ questions."

Stunned, the advisers part as Lavellan strides past them.

 Behind him, the mages come closer and closer. Some shiver in their robes; some wear their red cheeks and noses with delight; and some look simply terrified. Fiona stands at the head of the crowd, her chin held high.

Cullen's glad his jaw stayed in place when Lavellan relayed the news. At least the elf is out of sight for the time being-- like the emotions roiling in his head, in his chest, in his stomach, he can barely keep control of the expression he must be making. 

Both Leliana and Josephine shoot him concerned glances. Before they can ask questions, however, Cassandra approaches them, her lips pressed into a thin line.

"Time magic," is all she says as she crosses her arms over her chest, "It was... It was strange. That magister opened a rift in the middle of the castle and threw the Herald in there, as well as that Tevinter mage. They were gone for a while-- and at that point I could hardly believe that Lavellan was so... easily disposed of. But then-- then they emerged from the rift unharmed. Alexius surrendered to us, and--"

 "So now the mages have decided that they'd rather invade _us_ than Redcliffe?" Cullen interjects. The volume of his voice is greater than he expects and the women around him turn sharp eyes on him. 

Cassandra averts her eyes, chewing on the inside of her cheek. "This is not an invasion," she states slowly, "The Inquisition offered the alliance openly, with pure intent. They benefit as much as we do." 

"So Lavellan is speaking on behalf of the Inquisition now, hmm?" Leliana asks no one in particular. She turns towards the Chantry hall; Lavellan is nowhere to be seen.

Suppressing a growl, Cullen slams the heel of his palm into the doorway, his gloves muffling the sound of contact. "Fine. So long as we have a means of closing the Breach, this... This can stand."

Again, the women around him give him sharp eyes. They have questions on their tongues, held back by courtesy. Cullen knows he doesn't command the Inquisition - aside from their troops, of course - but the anxiety in his stomach won't let him be.

His nerves are twitchy, his muscles stiff and burning, adrenaline boiling in his blood. He's so familiar with this feeling, it's like breathing to him, but that doesn't mean he has to like it. Now, in a situation where discussion is the better solution to conflict, he can't be itching for a physical response.

"We must contain them," Cullen says, his voice like the edge of a blade grinding against stone, "They are to be under constant surveillance by at least-- how many are there, Cassandra, do you know? We must appoint a large enough guard. We don't have enough templars, but if we can act fast, then--"

"Cullen," Cassandra barks. He stares at her with wide eyes. "Calm down. We don't need to monitor them so strictly. They--"

"It's not a matter of debate!" Cullen replies hotly, "There _will_ be abominations among the mages, and we must be prepared!"

"If we rescind the offer of an alliance, it makes the Inquisition appear incompetent at best, and tyrannical at worst," Josephine protests.

Out of the corner of his eye, Cullen sees Lavellan coming towards them. The Herald's mouth is twisted, his brow knotted, and eyes dark. An expression like that should be clear signs that Cullen should approach with caution, but it only angers him further.

"What were you thinking, turning mages loose with no oversight? The veil is torn open!"

Lavellan stands strong against Cullen, coming closer now with long strides. He stands toe to toe with Cullen, breathing his air, scowling openly.

"'Turning mages loose'? Are you saying they can't control themselves?" Lavellan snarls, "I had to make a decision on the spot, and I'm sorry I couldn't consult you first. But I stand by my choice. Mages deserve to be free; we don't owe you anything. We're _people_ , we deserve a chance to live life like any other person in Thedas."

Cullen opens his mouth to reply, but Lavellan pokes a finger into his breastplate, cutting him off.

"I don't know what your Maker has told you about mages, but whatever it is, it can _not_ be enough to persecute us. If something goes wrong, then we'll deal with it on a case by case basis. In fact, I'll see to any incident personally. Don't you worry your pretty little head about it."

With that, Lavellan drops his hand and takes a step back from Cullen. However, his hard gaze lingers, watching Cullen as if he were picturing the Commander's death at that very moment.

"You're quite the spitfire, aren't you?" a newcomer coos, drawing everyone's attention immediately. The Tevinter mage steps out of the shadows, beaming under their gazes. "You've been quick to bounce back on your feet after all that."

"Dorian," Lavellan breathes. He approaches the other mage and they exchange secretive looks. A result of whatever Cassandra had described earlier.

Lavellan doesn't say anything else to Dorian. Instead, he turns to address his advisors again, sparing one last glare for Cullen. "In any case, we've now a means to closing the breach. As I said earlier, I'll have a full report ready by tonight, and we can discuss our next move tomorrow."

As he turns to leave, Lavellan taps Dorian on the elbow, beckoning him to follow. Yet another mage added to their arsenal.

Cullen rubs the back of his neck. The women are staring at him again.

Cassandra speaks up first. "If you know what's best for you, do not let this become a complication between the two of you." Heaving a heavy sigh, she turns towards the Chantry doors. "If you will excuse me, I would also like to retire for the night."

Without another word, she exits the building. Even with one less pair of eyes on him, Cullen doesn't feel the pressure let up one bit.

"Your history with mages may not be the best, Cullen," Leliana begins, "But think of it this way: perhaps Lavellan can help you overcome whatever feelings of conflict you have towards them? I think it could be beneficial to both of you."

Of course they're all taking Lavellan's side. After all, Cullen can hardly call himself better than any average templar. He's trying, Maker knows, but apparently old habits, and beliefs, do die hard. He pinches the bridge of his nose and nods.

Some part of him had hoped that Leliana would understand—after all, she’d been there at Kinnloch Hold and she’d seen firsthand the destructive power of mages. But she’d also been with Surana, and she didn’t make a peep against the decision to save the mages rather than purge them.

It’s a ridiculous thought. None of Surana’s company could hate a mage, considering he was one himself.

Right now, he can't help but feel that Lavellan is the one at fault here, bringing all of this danger to their doorstep. But if he's the only one who believes it, can it really be as bad as he thinks it is?

Josephine and Leliana bid their goodnights and leave him alone with his thoughts.

In any case, it wouldn't do any of them a sliver of good if Cullen marks Lavellan as his enemy. Maybe Leliana is right and this will be an... educational endeavour. 

* * *

Cullen wakes up early the next day, just after the crack of dawn. Haven's cold always serves as an effective reveille, but his roiling thoughts are just as responsible for rousing him.

True to his word, Lavellan's report is ready on the war table when Cullen arrives. The account is curt and lacks Lavellan's usual confidence. The events in this "dark future" appear to have shaken him more than he let on. 

Perhaps it was stress that spurred him to that outburst last night... Neither of them had been in their right minds, pushed to critical points of unease-- so maybe it's all still salvageable. 

Searching for the Herald shouldn't prove to be difficult. And it's not: Cullen finds him sitting outside Haven's gate, legs dangling from a cliff-side.

"My Lord Herald," Cullen calls out. No point in sneaking up on him.

Lavellan doesn't turn around, but he does lift a hand in greeting. Snow crunches underfoot as Cullen approaches.

"Commander," Lavellan says in acknowledgement, "Up early, I see."

"I could say the same to you," Cullen responds, "Considering your long night yesterday, I assumed you would have wanted to rest longer."

Lavellan stares at the ice below his feet. Slowly, he draws a leg to his chest and rests his chin on his knee. "I would have if I could have."

"Ah." Trouble sleeping. That makes sense.

"Commander, may I-- could I ask why it is you're so wary of mages?" Lavellan asks, finally turning his gaze to Cullen's.

Cullen's response is swift and fierce: "It's a personal matter." He can't say much else; he hasn't told anyone about what happened that day, and he doesn't care to relive the memory, either.

Lavellan's expression hardens. "I'm a mage, Commander. It's a personal matter for me, too. If you don't want to give me the details, that's fine, but I can't continue working with you knowing you have some sort of personal vendetta towards me."

"It's not..." Cullen sighs, averting his eyes. "It's not towards you, specifically."

"But towards all mages, yes? Like I said, if it's an issue against mages, it's an issue against me. I want to understand, Commander. Would you give me that chance?"

"I... It was a long time ago," Cullen starts, slowly, "Years ago. During the Fifth Blight. I used to be a templar, as you know. I served at the Fereldan Circle, Kinnloch Hold. There was... an incident. With blood mages."

"And ever since then, you've been mistrustful of us?"

It's different to associate _all_ mages with one he knows personally. Cullen gives a quick, shallow nod, refusing to return Lavellan's gaze.

"You don't have to tell the whole story," Lavellan offers quietly, gently, "I understand the perils of blood magic."

"Do you?" Cullen's gut twists at the thought. He can remember it all so clearly: the stench of blood, the dense pressure of magic hanging in the air, the wavering Veil barely holding in whatever demons that maleficar was summoning to his aid... "Every mage says they understand, but do they really? If they understand so damn well, why do they still do it? Putting so many innocent people in danger-- my friends, Herald. Me as well. None of us were spared. And for what?" 

For a few moments, Lavellan is quiet. Cullen almost declares it a victory, but then the Herald speaks again: "Commander, I understand that whatever happened was traumatizing. I'm not going to say that it wasn't, that you weren't a victim, and that what you experienced wasn't suffering. This is all true, and I'm deeply sorry. But are you truly any better than them by reducing us to our abilities? They saw you as nothing but pawns, sacrifices for their greed. But by branding us all as-- as maleficar," he says this word slowly; perhaps the Dalish don't use this word commonly, "Then you don't see us as people, either."

"It's _different_ , Herald," Cullen insists, "It's-- it's early prevention. Even if not every one of you is a blood mage, someone always _is_ , and if we catch it early, then we save lives. Can't you understand that?"

"It's thinking like that that drives people to blood magic, Commander! If you didn't doubt us - if you gave us a fighting chance - then do you think we would turn to blood magic? Is it worth reducing us to nothing?"

"Can we really take that chance?" Cullen fires back.

"Mages are branded as dangerous no matter what. We're killed for it regardless. Put in those Circles like prisoners, just for existing with the _possibility_ that we'll turn to blood magic and meddling with demons. It's true, we are more susceptible to possession-- but no mage _wants_ to be possessed. It's a last resort, a delusion of something greater than we are... But being put in a situation that forces us to take this last resort will, surprisingly, drive us to take it more often than is necessary."

Cullen deflates. There is reason in Lavellan's argument, but... "But if we don't watch them, then who will protect the innocents when demons run loose?"

"You assume that demons will run loose no matter what," Lavellan replies with a soft, wry smile, "Believe it or not, we don't truly want to give up our lives to whatever demon wants us. Demon possession is pretty much synonymous with death. Unless you believe mind control to be an advantage?"

"Considering how many mages succumb to it, I've been led to believe so, yes."

"So you see that mages would rather give up their lives to demons than continue to be dehumanized by templars?"

Cullen can't find a proper response to that.

"We're dealing with generalities when it is true that one specific event can ruin a man's life," Lavellan continues, "But even generalities on their own can destroy a man's life. I can't change what happened to you, Commander, but I want to earn your trust as someone beyond a mage. Even beyond the Herald of Andraste. We're more than abominations waiting to happen, and I hope you can see that."

Lavellan's eyes stay on him for a few moments longer. Despite the lecture he'd just gotten, Cullen doesn't feel that Lavellan holds any ill will towards him.

"I've been... I've been trying," Cullen admits, "To get away from the Order. From that life. I thought I'd been making progress, but..."

"You are," Lavellan assures him, "Whatever bullshit your Chantry's been feeding you has led you to believing this earnestly. But it's not too late. It's never too late."

Somehow, Cullen pulls his mouth into a wry smile. "So you're preaching heresy now, my Lord Herald?"

Lavellan scoffs. "I'm Dalish. It's you Andrastians who've been forcing this title on me."

"For better or for worse, I suppose."

Clicking his tongue, Lavellan gets to his feet. Still bare, despite the snow. He extends a hand in Cullen's direction.

"Hungry? Perhaps we should have breakfast. I bet everything's fresh, considering how early it is."

At first, Cullen hesitates. Then he reaches out and accepts Lavellan's hand. The elf's footing falters - Cullen is probably something like twice Lavellan's weight - but Cullen stands up without incident.

"Let's see if there's any hot coffee to spare."


	3. Chapter 3

"He has quite a way of testing your faith, doesn't he?"

Cullen looks up at Leliana. The other advisers have already exited the room, leaving him alone with Leliana and a handful of candles.

Leaning over the war table, Cullen rearranges some of the pieces on the map. "I've known for quite a while that the Maker has a very strange sense of humour."

"If having all of these mages here at once makes you uncomfortable, we do have some errands for you to run outside of Haven," Leliana continues. She keeps her distance, her back against the wall opposite to where Cullen stands. "I think being out of the cold could do you wonders."

Without looking up, Cullen rubs the back of his neck. "I'm not... uncomfortable. Besides, our troops _here_ need me. We get new recruits every day, and while Rylen is a capable man, he's better suited for running off at a whim than I am. I need to be here, Leliana. You know this."

"I just thought I'd ask." Leliana steps away from the wall and approaches the table. When Cullen finally looks up at her, he sees some degree of concern seeping through her usually calm countenance. Whether or not it's an act, he can't entirely tell, but... "We need you at one hundred percent."

"I am at one hundred percent," he insists, immediately disliking the harsh tone his words take on as they leave his mouth.

He holds Leliana's gaze for a breath or two. Biting back a scowl, he shakes his head and turns on his heel. He doesn't have time to argue, and he knows it won't do either of them any good.

Even if Lavellan had decided to side with the mages rather than the templars, they were still outnumbered here in Haven. This isn't Tevinter, where innocent lives are sacrificed at the snap of one's fingers. No, the Inquisition has order, even with mages assimilated into their numbers. They have order, and they will continue to have order as long as Cullen can help it.

* * *

The sound of continuous crackling catches Cullen's attention first; the tremor in the atmosphere catches his attention second. This sensation, this disturbance in the air, he's all too familiar with it.

Who the hell is practising magic at this hour? As soon as the question crosses his mind, Cullen already knows the answer.

Cullen doesn't usually make the rounds after dark. Being Commander, he _does_ have certain perks he can indulge in. However, his body isn't always kind to him, and he's prone to bouts of insomnia.

In all of his late-night adventures wandering, Cullen has never bumped into the Herald. As he slowly approaches Lavellan, he ponders whether or not this behaviour is out of the ordinary; surely if Lavellan was in the habit of training late at night, he would have taken notice by now. Perhaps the elf wants Cullen to see him this time.

Or maybe he's over-thinking things, like usual. 

The air crackles again. Static climbs up the hair on Cullen's arms, under the layers of fabric and metal that compose his armor. The stray electricity pulls at the fur around his collar, brushing his face.

When Cullen sneezes, the energy spikes for an instant before it dies out completely.

Lavellan's eyes glow in the dark. In the daylight, they're usually dark and smoky, but now they're a luminous grey.

"Commander," Lavellan says. His voice is barely above a whisper, though his words don't scratch like they would if he was whispering. "Hungry?"

"What?" Cullen comes to a stop a few feet away from the Herald.

Lavellan smiles. It contrasts with the eerie glow of his eyes. "I see no better reason for you to be awake right now. I figured with your work ethic, you'd be fast asleep by now."

Cullen's brow furrows before he allows himself a smile of his own. "I'm afraid I'm not so lucky tonight. But now that you've mentioned it, I think I could go for some food."

The smile on Lavellan's face widens into a grin. He slides his staff onto his back before heading towards the Chantry. "Same here. I've worked up quite the appetite."

With a snap of his fingers, Lavellan produces a flame from out of nowhere. Cullen eyes it with suspicion until they find a candle.

"Might I ask about the insomnia?" Lavellan asks after some moments of quiet. He's a few steps ahead of Cullen, though he doesn't turn around to address the Commander. "Or is it... personal?"

Cullen's breath fogs his vision despite the dim light. "It doesn't happen too often, if that's what you're asking. The cause, however..."

When Cullen trails off, Lavellan throws him a glance over his shoulder. Then he nods. "Alright. I just hope you're surviving well enough, Commander."

"I..." Cullen isn't too good with conversation tonight, it seems. He'll blame it on the lack of sleep. "It's-- It's just Cullen... My Lord Herald."

Chuckling, Lavellan shoulders the door to the kitchens open. His eyes meet Cullen's for an instant, reflecting light from the candle this time rather than producing its own. "Then it's just Lavellan. Mahanon, if you'd like, but I find most humans get tongue tied when it comes to saying my name."

"Lavellan sounds like it could be Fereldan," Cullen admits, “Maybe.”

Lavellan shrugs. "It doesn't have those tricky Rs that Orlesians are so fond of, it's true. I find Fereldan names to be more... Stocky. Woody. Solid. Does that make sense to you?"

Again, Lavellan turns his back to Cullen as he pads off towards the pantry. His feet make almost no noise as he clambers up some shelves.

Cullen feels small as he watches Lavellan ascend. "Um... Not exactly. I don't see how a name can have-- physical attributes."

When Lavellan returns to the ground, his arms are full of turnovers and cheese. Gesturing with his arms, he offers some to Cullen.

Once they've separated the food into equal portions, Lavellan hoists himself up onto a counter. After a moment of hesitation, Cullen joins him.

"Well, it's more like the sound they make once they roll off the tongue. Orlesian names have a lot of silent sounds to them, like 'Gaspard' or even the name 'Orlais' itself. That makes them feel airy. Fereldan names are as straightforward as they get; therefore they're solid." Lavellan pauses to shove half a turnover into his mouth. Once he chews and swallows, he shoots Cullen a wry smile. "How's that for a Dalish perspective, hmm?"

Cullen's almost done his block of cheese when Lavellan inclines his head towards him. "Curious indeed," he says helpfully, "What about Dalish names, then?"

Lavellan's chewing slows as he considers. "I think... Perhaps they're more liquidy. More syllables, but you don't just throw them into the air like Orlesians do. They flow, too. La-vel-lan. Ma-ha-non. Do you agree? Or do you think I'm full of shit?"

The laugh that bubbles up Cullen's throat mingles with his pastry. "I see your point, but I do admit it's sort of a... frivolous thing to think about."

"Spoken like a true warrior." Lavellan pops the rest of his food into his mouth before hopping off the counter. He pulls out his staff and brandishes it like a sword, crouching low to the ground. "Too straightforward, you types. It's always forwards or backwards, left or right. No diagonals. No shortcuts. No detours, either."

Pulling up a knee to his chest, Cullen finds himself content to watch Lavellan's exaggerated movements in the dim candlelight. "What can I say, I like things simple." 

The staff is waved in Cullen's direction. "Of course you do. Everyone does. But things are never that easy, hmm?"

Lavellan extends his hum as he returns his staff to his back. When his hands are free, he holds both of them out, the green mark glowing faintly in the dark.

"Do you ever regret coming here, Cullen?" Lavellan asks without looking up.

"Not at all," Cullen is quick to reply. "The situation in Kirkwall was far from ideal. At least here, I know I can do some good."

His fingers flex, manipulating the light of the mark. "Did you leave anyone behind in Kirkwall, Cullen?"

"No, I fear I made few friends there." Now Cullen is watching Lavellan closely. His eyes have adjusted to the dark and he can make out Lavellan's slight movements easily. "And my family's in Ferelden."

"No one... caught your interest?" Lavellan looks up. When their eyes meet, the food in Cullen's stomach jumps.

As Lavellan lowers his hands to his sides again, the green light of the mark fades away. With only the candlelight and the faint shine of Lavellan's eyes to focus on, Cullen feels the whispers of cold biting at his skin, a sudden and stark sensation.

"I can't say I was looking. Honestly, I... I was not good company back then."

After what happened in Kinnloch Hold, Cullen has had difficulty being able to determine exactly when he's ever been good company. It's been a long climb upward and even then he hasn't made significant progress.

Lavellan smiles. This time around, it's warmer and less eerie, though it's not enough to ease the turning of Cullen's stomach.

"I... might enjoy your company," Lavellan suggests.

Warmth floods Cullen's face. Although the cold of the night is finally settling unpleasantly in Cullen's bones, this abrupt warmth isn't exactly welcome.

With Lavellan's gaze so steady on his, Cullen's words are slow, halting, and spoken past a lump in his throat. "I would... value your friendship." This isn't how he'd like to offer it, however. "I'm afraid I cannot offer more. I... I trust you'll understand."

The room drops a few degrees in temperature as Lavellan's smile widens for a brief moment. He ducks his head and rubs the back of his neck, hiding his expression.

"Right. Of course." The Herald chuckles before jumping onto the counter again. Flour drifts into the air. "Anything else you want, Commander? I quite liked that cheese, I think I might get a bit more."

Cullen doesn't bother correcting Lavellan as he climbs up the shelves again. Of all the things the Herald might have asked him for, he never thought it would be the one thing Cullen _couldn't_ offer.


	4. Chapter 4

Cullen avoids Lavellan for the next few weeks. It's astonishingly easy to do so, as well. Lavellan has no reason to linger on the training grounds, and there are always new recruits to prepare. The words they exchange during war room meetings are brief and courteous, much to Cullen's relief.

"You're avoiding him," Cassandra says to him, sweat dripping on her brow despite the cold. Her breath is ragged; a good cover to her tone. He can't read her at all.

"Who? Joseph?"

The recruit in question looks up immediately, throwing a quick salute.

Scowling, Cassandra gestures to the man to stand down. He resumes his training.

"Don't play dumb with me, Cullen," Cassandra growls. She nudges his arm with an elbow and uses her chin to point to a more secluded area towards the woods. Away from any listening ears.

Thankfully, Lavellan's out on the Storm Coast getting acquainted with the newest addition to the Inquisition: a mercenary named The Iron Bull. Additionally, Lavellan has gotten closer to that Tevinter mage and has thus whisked him away to the rainy landscape as well.

Cassandra drops her sword before striding off to the previously indicated area. With a sigh, Cullen sheathes his and follows after her.

"Tell me what happened," Cassandra says as she crosses her arms over her chest.

Cullen opens his mouth to continue feigning innocence, but decides against it as Cassandra's gaze darkens. Throwing up his hands, Cullen averts his gaze. "It's a private matter, alright? I don't... If you really must know, why don't you ask him?"

Her scowl deepens. "Because he already has enough on his plate as it is! A man in your position should know better than to let personal matters get in the way of work. I thought you of all people would know that."

" _He_ was the one who started it," Cullen spits.

"Listen to yourself, you're acting childish!" Snow crunches fretfully as Cassandra approaches him, pointing a finger into his personal space. " _You_ have experience acting as a leader; he barely knows how to function in a formal human setting! You need to be the better man, Cullen. You must clear up whatever complications have come between the two of you so we do not have to deal with your _drama_. 

"What if I'm not the better man, Cassandra?" The volume of his voice repels her and she drops her hand. "What if I don't know how to deal with this?"

Her breath rattles in her throat before settling into a low growl in the pit of her chest. "Then learn."

They both heave a sigh. Shooting Cullen a sideways look, Cassandra runs a quick hand through her hair.

"It's been weeks now, Commander. I've given you time. I understand that it may not happen immediately, but... Please." She sighs again, bringing her hands together at her waist. "He's not... He's distracted. I've already asked about his health, but he claims to be fine. Forgive me for prying, but I need both of you at one hundred percent."

Where has he heard that before? Cullen resists the urge to roll his eyes and takes a few calming breaths. "I _am_ at one hundred percent--"

"No, you are not." Cassandra's gentle tone crawls under Cullen's skin, an intruder. "Trust me when I say this."

"Fine. I'll talk to him."

Cassandra's shoulders fall an inch as she takes another step back from him. "Good."

"We need to coordinate in order to close the Breach, anyhow," Cullen mutters, walking past her, "I'll need to know how he plans to position the mages."

He can feel Cassandra's gaze on his back as he returns to the training grounds. Maker's breath, let Lavellan take his time coming back to Haven.


	5. Chapter 5

Would it have been so bad to give the Herald a chance?

The next time Cullen has a turnover, he thinks of the way Lavellan smiled at him that night. His mind continues down this path and pulls up a memory of the first instance Lavellan had flirted with him... Cullen can't believe Lavellan got away with that one. Enjoying his voice; how cheesy.

The roof of the Chantry is probably the coldest part of the building; that might be why it's always empty. It's a good place to be alone, to think.

A mug of mulled wine warms his insides as he stares at the rafters. Stray bits of the evening sunlight filter through the wood, creating patterns in the sky.

Maybe he's just scared. Cullen's never really _been_ with anyone, not seriously. His adolescence had been spent training. Within the Order, he had his duties, and that... That was a long time of dedication and discipline. He didn't have time for... company. Some of his peers made time to find company, but Cullen was too dedicated. Sometimes he thought he’d just been looking for the right person. Although Amell had caught his eye, it hadn't been right. Dear Maker, nothing in that tower turned out right.

Cullen shakes his head. There's no way for Cullen to know what Lavellan wanted when he suggested he might enjoy Cullen's company. Was this company for just one night, or several nights? Would there have been formal courting? Wait, do the Dalish even know how to court?

The image of a dead ram on his desk pops into the front of his mind. He dismisses it with a swig of his wine.

Imagine the controversy... The Commander of the Inquisition's militia getting cozy with the Herald of Andraste. Someone like Varric could easily spin it into a romantic tale: trampling any opposition with the power of love at the head of their armies. On the other hand, their "love" could be their greatest downfall; being unable to sacrifice the other at a time of need...

Now he's really getting ahead of himself. He talks another deep gulp of his wine.

It could just be that Lavellan is a man. Cullen hasn't been interested in a man before. They lack the soft curves that he would very rarely allow himself to be distracted by, in the dark of the night with only his thoughts for company.

He's not even terribly interested in women by the looks of things. What could possibly be attractive about a man?

Maybe it's not men in general... Maybe he ought to just consider _Lavellan_. The man is lithe, lean, and possesses the ability to sneak up on people like a shadow. More often he's humorous than serious, but his heart is in the right place, often looking to diffuse tension rather than push things with aggression.

To imagine someone like Lavellan in Cullen's arms, slight body pressed against his own, it's...

"Well! I never fancied the Commander of the Inquisition to be an intruder of secret places." A pause. “I feel that sentence had more irony than I was anticipating.”

Cullen blinks to clear his vision. Has he really been drinking so much that he's starting to imagine voices? His mug doesn't feel that heavy in his hands.

Once his mind's back on track, Cullen identifies the newcomer as that Tevinter mage, Dorian. He finishes his ascent from the ladder and walks over to a wooden beam a few paces away from Cullen. His grey eyes immediately find Cullen's drink. Cullen holds it closer to his chest.

"Here for some alone time, then," he observes, voice lower now. His boots thud against the wood as he props his elbows on his knees. "I'm fond of this place for the same reason. Cold as the Void, however."

Cullen hums his agreement. "Cold's good for thinking."

"Not when you have a nice mug of what I'm assuming is some sort of wine to keep you company." Dorian leans forward and inhales. "Spiced, how delightful. Cinnamon? Cloves?"

Cullen shrugs. "I dunno. Probably."

"Big mug you've got there, too!" There's a glint in Dorian's eye as he regards Cullen. "Might I ask what's brought you here, Commander?"

"Like you said," Cullen replies, disliking the way his words slur together slightly, "Alone time. As in, time not being questioned by Tevinter mages."

Dorian's responding laugh echoes throughout the roof. "But Commander, I was hoping for some compensation for having my secret hiding place invaded."

"That's what Commanders do best, mage," Cullen retorts, "They invade. Conquer. Win."

"I'd appreciate the words a lot more if you weren't drunk. They'd definitely be more threatening were you sober." Dorian smirks. "And possibly even... enthralling."

Cullen squints. "Are you flirting with me?"

"Observant, even in your current state. I'm afraid I'm prone to it when I'm around vulnerable, handsome men."

Cullen frowns, then covers it up by taking another drink of his wine.

"Does it bother you?" Dorian continues. 

At this point, Cullen can only shrug. "Haven't decided yet."

Several questioning thoughts float around Cullen's muddled mind. It takes some effort to pin one down. "So you... like men?"

Dorian quirks a brow. "Do you?"

"Haven't decided yet," Cullen admits. When he realizes what he said, he takes a deep swig of wine, some of it dribbling down his chin. He wipes his arm over his face. Turns out gauntlets don't absorb stray liquids very well.

"You must be drunker than you realize," Dorian murmurs. His feet shuffle against the wood, but before he can get close, Cullen raises a hand.

"I'm perfectly fine."

Dorian stares at his hand for a moment or two. Cullen bends his wrist a few times, waving him down.

"Lavellan," Cullen starts, leaning forward, "Do you... He's..."

"He's fond of you," Dorian responds, "Admires your fur. I feel it must be a euphemism for something, but I haven't decided yet."

"Euphemism," Cullen repeats. He scratches his chin, then begins to rub his stubble. "Okay. He said he might enjoy my company."

"Secrets about our dear Herald? I guess this is compensation after all," Dorian purrs. "Still, I don't think it's fair to him to that you're blabbing about his personal affairs while drunk. Unless-- Wait... _This_ is what you've been thinking about? Lavellan's crush on you?"  
 

Slowly, Cullen nods. "Haven't decided yet. What to think of him. What do you think? Of him?"

The question calms Dorian's features. He even slumps a little, replacing his elbows on his knees. "He _is_ handsome, if that's what you're asking. He's a talented mage, and he certainly doesn't have your southern Circles to thank for that."

"But no blood magic, right?"

Dorian's brow furrows at the question. It just slipped out; mages mean blood magic. They mean danger, and recklessness, and selfishness--

"Not that I've seen." Dorian rubs the tip of his moustache. "Doesn't seem the type, either. Ambitious, but not that type of ambitious."

Nodding, Cullen rests his lips on his cup. There's still some wine left, but he'll save it for when the cold begins to bite at his senses again. "That's... good. But what about you, you're-- you're from Tevinter. You..."

"My hands are clean, Commander." As he speaks, Dorian raises both his hands. "Relatively speaking, of course. Magic's nice like that, you see. Fight from a distance and you lower the chance of exposing yourself to blood spray. But as for blood magic? No, I've never felt the need to get intimate with any demons. I don't think I ever will."

His voice drops a few degrees in temperature as he speaks. It's enough for Cullen to contemplate the last gulp of wine.

In the quiet that follows Dorian's statement, the mage returns his hands to his knees. Cullen can feel Dorian's eyes on his face, searching.

He goes for that final swig, taking his time.

"You turned him down," Dorian says quietly.

Cullen tips the mug higher.

"Do you... regret it?"

Cullen drops the mug onto the floor with a clatter. He stares at it, avoiding Dorian's gaze.

"Haven't decided yet," he murmurs. "He likes you, though. Takes you with him everywhere."

"It's been a few weeks since we've met, Commander, I wouldn't call it anything serious."

"Still," he presses on, "You said-- You said you think he's handsome."

"I called you handsome, didn't I?"

Cullen waves a hand. "Not the point."

"So what is the point?"

His breath rattles in his chest as he mulls over his answer. "Do you... would you have... might you enjoy his... company?"

Dorian's laugh echoes again, but it's briefer this time, curt and sharp and a few degrees colder. "Can you imagine that: a Tevinter mage getting cozy with the Herald of Andraste? That's just begging for scandal."

With a nod, Cullen finally meets Dorian's eyes. He can barely make them out in the dark - and they don't glow like Lavellan's - and he wonders if he's imagining the cold in them, a slowly withdrawing... something. Something curling up into his head, drawing away from Cullen, away from the conversation.

"I thought of that, too," Cullen states, "Not-- you, I mean. The scandal. The controversy. Of... being with the Herald."

"Amongst other things, I'm assuming," Dorian prods, "I imagine you must have also thought of _being_ with the Herald."

"You interrupted."

"Ah, how rude of me. Must have been a pleasant train of thought."

Cullen makes a noise in the back of his throat. "Haven't decided yet," he says for the umpteenth time.

"Like I said, our Lord Herald _is_ quite handsome. A little stringy, but I can see the appeal in that. Willowy, rather; limber, svelte. A strong jaw. Piercing eyes."

Cullen lets his own eyes slide closed, for just a moment.

"Curious tattoos on his face... Vallaslin, I think they're called. A quick wit, a clever mind. A leader." Dorian pauses. "Do you think you could conquer _him_ , Commander?"

Cullen shivers and shakes his head.

"Well, I'm glad you can decide on one thing," Dorian says with a chuckle. "Maybe I ought to let you return to your thoughts. Your alone time."

Cullen's eyes flutter open. Immediately, he finds Dorian staring down at him, his lips curled in a smirk. Part of Cullen wants to punch him, wipe that smug expression off his face, but the rest of Cullen just wants to sleep. 

And there is one traitorous part that wants to contemplate Lavellan just a little longer.

Exhaling audibly, Dorian gets to his feet. He approaches Cullen and extends a hand.

"Come now, Commander, I don't want you freezing overnight. Wouldn't be much use to the Inquisition that way, would you?"

Frowning, Cullen considers the offer in front of him. With some hesitation, he takes it.

Dorian huffs as he pulls on Cullen's hand. "Goodness, how much does all that armour weigh? What a paranoid creature you must be, constantly wearing this ridiculous get-up."

The only response Dorian gets is a huff; Cullen decides to use his remaining energy to get to his feet. As soon as he rights himself, the room starts to spin and he grabs at Dorian, at any part he can reach. Luckily for him, Dorian meets him halfway. One arm slips under Cullen's shoulder and the other one drifts to the opposite arm with a patient grip.

"Sorry," Cullen mutters.

"Don't worry about it," Dorian responds under his breath.

There's some shifting and then Cullen's resting most of his weight on Dorian's side. They hobble over to the ladder and nearly fall down the opening among the wooden beams.

"Well," Dorian sighs, adjusting Cullen's weight some more, "This is going to be a problem." 

* * *

The next day, Cullen wakes up to a pounding headache and a pile of blankets around him. Amongst the blankets is a note, but Cullen puts it aside, already decided that opening it and reading it would take too much effort just at that moment.

He spends a good while wiggling his toes and fingers, willing the feeling to come back. It also helps his mind find a rhythm, one that he hopes will distract him from the crashing pain in his skull.

Eventually, he manages to clear the haze of his brain enough to sit up. His elbow knocks something metal and it clatters against wood. The volume of the noise probably isn't as catastrophic as his ears seem to think, but he flinches all the same.

When he investigates the object, it turns out it's a flask. After opening it and sniffing it, he determines that it's water and takes long, needy gulps.

That really helps clear up his head. Time to tackle that note. It reads:

" _Dear Commander,_

_Turns out I can't just push a 200 pound man down a ladder and expect him to survive, despite the extra 100 pounds his armour provides as protection. I did my best, considering the circumstances. I hope you didn't lose any extremities to the cold._

_There is also a bag of turnovers amongst the rags. I heard you're fond of them._

_Regards,  
_ _Dorian_

_P.S.: You owe me one_."

Cullen groans, tempted to crumple the note in his fist. In fact, he would have done it immediately after reading it if not for the fact that his hand is still a few shades numb.

He opts for shoving it into the pouch attached to his belt. Instead, he takes out his frustration by angrily throwing around the blankets until he finds the bag of food.

Since when was it common knowledge that he had a slight partiality for turnovers?


	6. Chapter 6

The Maker has an awful sense of humour.

Cold assaults Cullen from all sides. Normally, he would take it with a stiff upper lip, but considering how exhausted he is, he barely has the energy to keep going forward.

His mind reflects the gusts all around him. Grey, blurry, and cold. Constant tumbling of thoughts, melting into a nondescript mass of cold at a moment's notice.

There is one thought that manages to catch, however: Lavellan. Images of the Herald pass through Cullen's mind in flashes; all too quick to process fully, hot needles that shoot through his head. That damn smile of his. The perpetual static that clings to his clothes and makes the fur on Cullen's collar rise and dance. The glow of his eyes in the dark, the eerie contrast to the warmth of his smile.

The smile for Cullen.

Eventually, these thoughts are crowded out by thoughts of what could have been, of what was lost, of who was lost. If only Cullen had known what was coming, if only he had fought harder, evacuated more, done more, _done more_ \--

If only he were stronger.

Something in his throat tightens, clenches, thirsts-- a hunger in his veins, a craving, a hole in his gut, and he thinks of an even worse time, a time when he was surrounded by slaughter and blood and Maker fucking _forbid_ he forget what he saw that night, betrayed by his charges, left alone, left for dead, hiding and fighting and so damn exhausted--

Amell had been taken, a sacrifice for those malifecarum. Surana had come back and saved them all. Cullen felt betrayed. Cullen felt beyond betrayed. Cullen was left with nothing and Surana, _one of them_ , had walked away a hero.

It's thanks to Surana that Cullen's still breathing. A mage is capable of taking so many lives, but also capable of saving so many.

But isn't that the same of everyone? Cullen had the lives of several people in his hands tonight. He still does. He always does. Whether or not a demon is involved doesn't change that fact.

He thinks of Amell as the wind batters his face and the snow creeps into the cracks of his armour. He remembers her smile, her laugh, her wit. He remembers the way she always provided a light when they met after curfew. He didn't fear her magic then. He was amazed. He genuinely believed that mages deserved his protection, and that their lives needed to be preserved. Back then, they weren't expendable.

No life is expendable. Tonight he's been reminded all too clearly. 

* * *

When they set up camp, Cullen thinks of Lavellan's glowing eyes.

Would it have been so bad to give the Herald a chance?

The question diverts his mind from the cold. The question diverts his mind from what he's lost, who he's lost, of what could have been if only--

If he had given Lavellan a chance, he doubts he would be taking Lavellan's loss as well as he is right now. If what he's experiencing could be described as _well_. He barks out orders to oppose the howl of the wind, terse and loud. He raises tents with sharp snaps of his joints, the creak of his armour reflecting the creak of his bones.

He leaves the responsibility of fire to the mages.

The fur on his collar is coated in snow, stiff with the cold; a contrast to the wispy static that once was. His entire body is coated in frost, but he notices the fur the most.

Once they've stretched their resources as far as they can, Leliana approaches him.

"You need to rest, Commander," she murmurs. Despite the low tone of her voice, her words cut straight through the wind and to his ears.

"I'll rest when I'm sure that everyone is settled for the night," Cullen responds curtly, "We need to set up watch. I need to find the most able-- Do we have any healers available? Are they well enough to tend to the injured?"

He throws her a quick glance before attempting to stride past her. She extends an arm and catches him around the middle.

"Leliana, we don't have time for this nonsense," he hisses.

"Cullen," she warns, "It wouldn't do for you to work yourself to death. Not after everything that's happened."

 _We need you at one hundred percent_ , is what she's saying, a sentiment that's been repeated to him over and over again.

No matter what he says, he'll never be at _one hundred percent_ ever again. Although he's removed the leash, it has left scars behind, ones he's afraid will never heal.

With that thought, he quickly scans the crowd in search of Cassandra. She's standing with Josephine, shoulders tight and legs shoulder-width apart; always on the defensive.

"I'll return once I've set a schedule for night-watch, alright? Then we can discuss our next move." He pauses. "And we can sit and rest as we talk."

Leliana rolls her eyes at him, but allows him to do as he wishes.

Later on, he finds the other advisers to the Inquisition by the central campfire. Josephine stands on the balls of her feet, ready to leave at a moment's notice. Cassandra's mouth is set in a deep scowl. Leliana has her arms crossed over her chest.

Hesitantly, he approaches them.

"We can't-- we can't afford to wait," Leliana says, "We must leave once dawn breaks."

"But this can't... the Maker must have other plans for him, I'm sure of it," Cassandra's voice tapers into something low and almost mournful.

"I'm afraid there won't be much left of the Inquisition if we linger," Josephine adds, "We've already suffered enough loss."

When Cullen is within arms' reach of his companions, he makes eye contact with Cassandra. "I've set up watch for the night. I agree, we should leave by daybreak; however, if there's anything worth seeing out there, then we'll know."

Cassandra frowns, but her shoulders lose a fraction of tension. "Fine. I suppose we don't have any other options."

"Well, that's one issue covered," Josephine sighs, "Another pressing issue is that we have no idea where we are. We can move by daybreak, but after that, what then?"

"We march, of course," Cassandra insists.

"But _where_?"

"Out here, I haven't been able to receive any messages," Leliana states, "Without any knowledge of our whereabouts, I'm afraid--"

" _It's him_!"

All of the advisers lift their heads and turn towards the ruckus. A soldier comes running down a snowy incline, arms waving.

"It's-- It's the Herald!" With a gasp, the soldier collapses to his knees. He continues to wave his arms in the direction in which Cullen assumes is where the soldier found the Herald.

Cullen finds himself following those waving hands. At first, he struggles to find purchase against the snow, his knees stiff and legs chilled to the bone. But then he's making strides across the camp, wind in his ears. Then he's running.

There are urgent footsteps behind him. It's impossible to know who else is running, and how many follow his trail.

Cullen follows the soldier's footsteps up the hill. The further he gets from the camp, the darker it is, but there's a familiar green light in the distance that pulls at his chest. Closer and closer still, the light gets brighter. His lungs ache in the cold, his body begs for rest, but still he runs.

At the top of the hill, he sees Lavellan. In the dark of the night, he can see the faint glow of his eyes.

When they make eye contact, Lavellan smiles. Cullen feels the faint sensation of static crawling over his skin.

Lavellan falls to his knees and Cullen comes running.


End file.
